


Rudolph's Nose

by hobbitsdoitbetter



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Christmas Eve, F/M, First Christmas, Fluff and Smut, Humour, NSFW, POV Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-30
Updated: 2016-12-30
Packaged: 2018-09-13 08:07:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9114361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hobbitsdoitbetter/pseuds/hobbitsdoitbetter
Summary: Christmas Eve and Sherlock Holmes has a problem.A very hard problem.Hopefully Molly Hooper will be able to help him with it.





	

_ Disclaimer: This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine. Probably completely NSFW and tooth rottingly sweet: let’s see how that combination works, eh? Happy (belated) holidays, everyone! _

* * *

**~ RUDOLPH’S NOSE~**

* * *

 

_ It’s like wearing a bloody Christmas tree _ .

Sherlock stares forlornly down into his lap, taking in the sight of his very obvious, very embarrassing, very long-lasting erection, and for the first time in his life he genuinely prays for the sweet solace of the grave.

(Either that or the tools to sue Pfizer industries and the creators of Viagra into the Stone Age. Repeatedly.)

Because it’s not enough that he’s been hard for so long that it’s getting painful. It’s not enough that he’s had to cancel any and all cases he might have taken tonight, since he can’t bear to be spotted out and about sporting The Erection That Never Ends. It’s not even enough that he has succeeded in creating his own version of a patented erectile dysfunction drug with little more to go on than his chemistry degree and a certain nonchalance where human testing was concerned-

No, the worst thing about it is that, despite his protestations of illness and wanting to be left alone, he can hear Molly bloody Hooper traipsing up the  stairs to his flat, Mrs. bloody Hudson following behind her and chattering away like an over-caffeinated squirrel.

The women sound kind. They sound concerned. They sound like they’re completely oblivious to what a stress their presence is, though Sherlock knows that neither would never knowingly cause him any pain at all.

In desperation Sherlock slips off his suit jacket, lays it across his lap.

He then adds his blue housecoat.

Then the Union Jack pillow John had insisted on buying.

Then Billy the Skull.

This last he can’t help but feel is rather gilding the lily- As is the faux-relaxed pose he drops into, his phone settled atop Billy’s crown.

He opens his emails and starts swiping idly through them. 

By the time the two women have reached his front door, Sherlock has a veritable treasure trove of random objects piled onto his crotch, all put there in the vague hope that neither Mrs. Hudson nor Molly Hooper will not see what his cock is doing to him, simply because his current medicinal experiment has come a-cropper-

Such may be a forlorn hope, however, he is forced to allow. For both women enter, Molly wrapped up in a massive woolly scarf and coat, her hair dusted in snow and her cheeks pinked, and for a moment Sherlock forgets to be cross. He forgets what’s wrong with him. He even, God help him, forgets the Cock of Ages sitting in his lap. Because she’s here, and she’s smiling and she’s so disarmingly, endearingly Mollyish that, clot that he is, he very nearly rises to greet her, as manners- and Mummy’s repeated childhood threats- indicate he should-

It’s only at the very last moment that he remembers the object in his trousers and desists.  

He merely nods haughtily to she and Mrs. Hudson, his expression one of deeply feigned disinterest before he turns back to pretend he’s looking at his phone, which is also, unhelpfully, in his lap.  

Mrs. Hudson narrows her eyes at the sight: She’s not buying the act apparently.

It is only with great difficulty that Sherlock holds his nerve at this realisation.

Rather her gaze is drawn to Sherlock’s lap and the detective swears he sees the moment she ascertains his predicament:  _ The glint in her eye would give the Devil himself pause. _

He inwardly begins swearing in every language he knows, including ancient Greek. 

Without a small smirk- “Well, I must be going!”- Hudson turns around and walks right back out, making sure to close the door firmly behind her. A moment later, Sherlock hears the theme song from  _ Eastenders _ float up from down below- It’s clearly being played a great deal more loudly than it needs to be. (His landlady is many things, but she’s not deaf.)   

“Isn’t that peculiar?” Molly says, pulling off her gloves and unwinding the scarf from around her neck. “Has she been at the herbal soothers again?”

Sherlock shakes his head, telling himself sternly not to watch as Molly unbuttons her coat and hangs it on the back of John’s chair before proceeding to open a plastic bag which she’s brought with her. 

As soon as she does so a deliciously appetising scent fills the room and despite himself, Sherlock’s mouth starts to water: There’s no food in the flat and he’s been far too mortified to pop out to Tesco’s looking like this. He has, therefore, had nothing to eat all day.  

“Chicken soup,” Molly says brightly when she sees his expression and as if to add emphasis, his stomach rumbles. Sherlock scowls down at it. “Angelo made it specially for you when he heard you were sick.”

“Oh,” he says. “Oh… yay.”

She frowns at the reaction, reaches out, about to touch his forehead and check his temperature- “You didn’t mention what you thought it was in your text,”-  and instinctively Sherlock catches her wrist. Stops her.

He’s not entirely certain how he’ll react if she touches him right now, but he suspects it will result in his acting like a complete and utter numpty.

She frowns at him, expression curious and a little hurt and as always, it cuts him to the quick.  _ How is it that she can always get him to fold as easily as one of Mycroft’s umbrellas?  _ “What’s the matter?” she asks quietly and he sighs. Lets her wrist go before breaking eye contact, head hanging on embarrassment. For a moment he considers demanding a spoon and allowing her to continue thinking him irritated, but he can’t bring himself to do that to his Molly. He’s not so callous or cowardly as that. So-

“I’m suffering from, well, from an issue with medication,” he says quietly. “Something I’ve been working on, by myself: It’s… There’s been an unforeseen side-effect.” He grimaces. “A rather embarrassing unforeseen side-effect..”

And without waiting for her to speak- or giving himself a chance to chicken out-  he hands her Billy the Skull, then removes the pillow. The housecoat. The suit jacket.

Once he does so he gestures to his crotch and he sees her eyes widen, her cheeks turning red.

“Oh,” she says.  _ Sweet God in heaven help him, she even bites her lip and that does not help the situation in his lap in the slightest. _ “Oh, it’s- That’s-” Her cheeks darken further. “You’re-”

“Yes,” he says morosely. “Quite. It’s been this way for three hours now and nothing I do seems to get rid of it.” 

He sticks his lower lip out petulantly and her eyes flicker up to his. “So you’ve, y’know-?” she asks. “Have you tried to-?”

“Obviously.” He doesn’t even have the energy to be belligerent-  _ This is quite the most embarrassing conversation he thinks he’s ever had.  _ “Nothing works,” he continues. “Not thinking about you in the Morgue. Not thinking about you with your hair down. Not even thinking about that dress you wore to Rosamund’s Christening-”

She perks up. “You liked that, did you?”

He shoots her a withering look. _ Liked did not begin to describe how he’d felt about That Dress.   _ “Of course I liked that,” he says. “I got into this whole sorry mess because I liked That Dress-”

And it was true: in the aftermath of seeing her in That Dress he’d finally gotten his thumb out and asked her to come on a date with him. It was this date- and the kiss with which it had ended- which had secured her place in his heart. (Of course, it had also led to the current issue in his underpants.)

Because once he’d kissed her, he’d found all sorts of juvenile, childish appetites returning to him. He’d come home randier than a teenager, unable to stop thinking about what he wanted to do when he got his pathologist alone. It had lasted for days, been better even than drug-taking. The new information provided by actually kissing Molly had allowed him to hone his fantasies, to make them more realistic. He now knew how her body felt beneath his hands, how she sounded when she sighed into his mouth. He knew the way she tugged his hair when she was feeling aroused. Perhaps most importantly, he knew that she still fancied him, still wanted him, even after all he’d put her through-

And then, of course, as it always did when he meddled with sentiment, the hobnailed boot of reality had decided to intercede in his happiness, and it had done so in spectacular fashion. 

(In his darker moments, Sherlock sometimes wondered if it is in Mycroft’s employ). 

For after the twelfth or thirteenth frenzied masturbatory episode in his bathroom, Sherlock had discovered that he couldn’t last, not more than a minute or two, when he imagined being with Molly. He discovered that, now he had finally found someone he wished to explore intimacy with, his capacity for intimacy had been severely curtailed, and in the most embarrassing way possible. He had become, to use an American parlance, a two hump chump. In the despair which had followed Sherlock had considered every option he had, had run through every plan imaginable, and he had thus come to a solution: he would use science. 

He would use science to secure his prowess for Molly. 

Which was, he mused darkly, how one ends up sitting in one’s flat on Christmas Eve with a massive erection and no possibility of relief whilst one’s girlfriend peers at one like the proverbial deer caught in the proverbial car headlights- 

“So this is for me..?” she asks, and there’s something, something lovely in the way she says it. The way she looks at him. (But then, there’s always been something lovely in the way she looked at him). 

She’s dropped onto the couch beside him and she’s moving closer, her eyes on his and very, very dark. 

She’s biting her bloody lip again and oh, the things that does to him… 

So he nods. “As I said, I was thinking about you,” he murmurs. “Thinking about us. And I wanted to- I thought we might-” He sighs, rakes his hands through his hair in frustration. He hates talking about sentiment and he positively loathes the idea of talking about this. Besides, something about mentioning the time of year seems to imply he was thinking of his cock as a sort of Christmas present, which it resolutely was not. 

“But I couldn’t,” he continues, rather than continue to ponder  _ that  _ idea. “I think about you and I- I  just can’t seem to-”

Her face falls. “Oh, so you can’t… I mean, you needed…  you had to get  _ help _ to, to do that with me...”

“No!” The words come out sharper than he intended and she looks up at him. 

Despite everything he reaches out impulsively and takes her hand, unwilling to let her think  _ that.  _

“The problem isn’t that I can’t…you know, thinking of you,” he says softly. Her shoulders relax slightly and he feels himself ease up a little. He also feels an unfamiliar wash of warmth in his chest as he realises he just said the right thing. “The problem is that I can’t… I can’t hold off, when I’m thinking about you,” he continues. “When I imagine it’s you... I just, I just… It’s all a little much for me- And then it’s over.”

She frowns. “I don’t understand.”

“Of course you don’t.” Again he sighs. Again he rakes his hand through his hair. 

This time however he keeps her hand in his and the feel of that touch gives him the calmness to say what comes next.

“I want you,” he says quietly and she nods. “I… I want us to be together. I enjoy the thought of us together.” Again she nods and despite himself he smiles.  “I just… I just enjoy the thought of it a bit too much to be any… use to you, in bed.” She blinks. Looks at him. He sees understanding steal into her expression and he swears his face must turn as bright as Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer’s shnoz. “Do you understand what I’m telling you, Molly?”  he asks and he looks at her through his lashes, willing her not to make him be any more graphic.

Thankfully, his Molly is both clever and merciful.  

“So you tried to… fix things?” she says quietly, and he nods in relief.  She’s looking at him like he’s mental but then, he did just test a completely unpatented medication on himself. He supposes she has cause.  “You experimented on yourself so that when we sleep together you could be sure you’d be able to, ahem, last the course?” she asks and he nods.

Tries not to think about how much more insane it sounds when  _ she  _ describes it. 

Of course, that is basically their relationship in a nutshell, but he’s not willing to admit that. 

So he nods again, opening his mouth to defend himself; Before he can though he’s knocked onto his back as Molly launches herself at him, her arms around his neck and her lips fastening onto his like a heat-seeking missile. It’s somehow completely bloody terrifying and completely bloody wonderful, but that too is their relationship in a nutshell, he thinks. 

“That’s the best Christmas present anyone’s ever given me,” she says when they pull apart for air and Sherlock is left staring at her, wide-eyed and amazed and really, really, confused by everything. “It’s the most stupidly romantic thing anyone’s ever done for me…”

And she kisses him, muttering to him that they’ll work through it and she doesn’t care and really, truly, he shouldn’t have experimented on himself but she loves that he was willing to do that for her-

* * *

 

By Christmas Night his erection is gone and he and Molly have discovered all sorts of interesting things about one another. 

They may not have solved his current problem but Sherlock is more sure than ever that he’s picked the right woman for the task. 


End file.
